


Snow Cones and the Giant Slide: How Isaac Conned His Lame Friends Into Dating

by OLTRX



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Erica, Alive Vernon Boyd, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Monster of the Week, there's a yeti
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 05:46:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5445467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OLTRX/pseuds/OLTRX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the only booth with any space left. I love snow cones, he thought to himself naively. I’ll sign myself up for twenty shifts, sounds like a good idea. How could there possibly be any downfall to making snow cones for ten consecutive hours, two days in a row, in December? Why and how could that be in any way unpleasant?</p><p>It’s fifty nine degrees out and he’s a wimp. He’s wearing three pairs of latex gloves with actual wool gloves underneath and it isn’t enough.</p><p>Additionally, if another suburban mom tries to make him take cash instead of tickets, he’s going to spray her cardigan with neon green dye and make incoherent beeping noises until she leaves him alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow Cones and the Giant Slide: How Isaac Conned His Lame Friends Into Dating

Stiles is a notorious procrastinator.

Not the kind of procrastinator who loads the dishwasher after a snack and an episode of the walking dead, but the kind of procrastinator who loads the dishwasher at one a.m. when he thinks he sees the headlights of the squad car coming up the road. The kind who brings his laundry downstairs only when he pulls open the dresser drawer in the morning before school and finds himself staring at a small expanse of plywood. The kind who covertly writes the last two paragraphs of his essays in class the period before they’re due (it’s not like Finstock is saying anything he actually needs to pay attention to anyway, right?).

The kind who still has twenty volunteer hours left to do for the semester on the Monday of dead week.

Yeah. He knows.

Part of the blame has to go to his accursed lifestyle. How could he possibly think about trig when a hoard of actual, real life acid-spitting fairies were attacking people in the forest? And he’s sure he would’ve finished those notes on the cold war more than twenty minutes before they were due if it hadn’t been for the chimera incident.

Of course, he’s still at least 20% to blame for all his late or nick-of-time assignments. (Maybe 50% if you compare him to an actual superhuman like Lydia Martin, but that wouldn’t be fair to either of them). Wikipedia and Smash Bros are his kryptonite. What can he do?

The difference, of course, between Econ notes and volunteer hours is that Econ notes can be taken in as little as twenty minutes when correctly caffeinated, but the whole point of volunteer hours is that you spend a long ass time doing them. Additionally, one chapter of Econ notes is worth like five points. Volunteer hours are worth an entire History letter grade.

Which is how he finds himself elbow deep in finely-crushed ice on a Saturday in early December, when he knows he should be studying for his Bio final but realistically would probably be three hours into a Jessica Jones re-watch.

Why does he do this to himself?

The Winter Faire is an annual festival run by Beacon Elementary. It’s aimed towards kids; there’s a giant slide on the lawn, and several home-made obstacle courses and fair games. Stiles’s favorite was always the cake walk. He’d always go with his father, who would always get distracted by a friendly parent. They’d talk about sports, or the new teacher, or something police related. Stiles would take his tickets and run. Stiles could go five rounds before his dad was finally able to extract himself from the death-grip of the well meaning citizen, by which time it would already be too late. He and Scott would take their winnings to the tree behind the water tank and eat them as quickly and inconspicuously as possible. Half the time, one of them would throw up. It was so worth it.

Second favorite would have been the snow cones. Why have snow cones in December? Maybe because the lows in their part of NorCal were in the sixties. Maybe because kids are fucking insane. Maybe because anything with concentrated amounts of sugar were totally worth it.

Well, they definitely aren’t his second favorite anymore.

It was the only booth with any space left. I love snow cones, he thought to himself naively. I’ll sign myself up for twenty shifts, sounds like a good idea. How could there possibly be any downfall to making snow cones for ten consecutive hours, two days in a row, in December? Why and how could that be in any way unpleasant?

It’s fifty nine degrees out and he’s a wimp. He’s wearing three pairs of latex gloves with actual wool gloves underneath and it isn’t enough.

Additionally, if another suburban mom tries to make him take cash instead of tickets, he’s going to spray her cardigan with neon green dye and make incoherent beeping noises until she leaves him alone.

Around three o’clock on the first day, Scott comes to visit him. He crouches behind the booth, and Carol (Stiles’s perfectly pleasant coworker for the shift) glares at him until she’s allowed to leave. He wonders where she goes. Back to the warmth and comfort of a Honda, perhaps. He’s jealous.

“Rough gig, dude,” Scott says. Stiles grimaces, and tries to roll another lump of shaved ice into an approximate ball shape.

“I regret so many things,” Stiles says.

A woman whose name might be Linda asks him what the dollar equivalent of three tickets is. He explains that tickets can be bought $10 for 20 at a booth three yards to his right. She asks if she can just give him a five. He says no. She says she’s been waiting in line for fifteen minutes. Her daughter is seven, she says. Her daughter wants a snow cone. Maybe-Linda is wearing a puffy blue North Face vest. He makes himself loosen his grip on the Cherry flavor bottle. It is so, so tempting.

“Don’t you have some kind of mind-control thing going on?” Stiles asks.

“Nah, that’s only with dogs,” Scott says. Fred, the parent Stiles is working with this shift, pretends to not hear.

“Okay, but is there any way you could like, suggest to these parents en-masse that perhaps they should buy themselves some fucking tickets before they get in line?” Stiles asks.

“Sorry,” Scott says with a sympathetic shrug.

The next time someone comes to the booth unprepared, their pomeranian spontaneously starts to lose its shit. Stiles and Scott covertly high-five. Fred looks vaguely disconcerted.

“What finals do you have on Monday?” Stiles asks.

“Ugh. Don’t even remind me,” Scott says. “I think Bio, and Econ.”

“Oh man,” Stiles says. “Dude, totally hit me up after, alright? I don’t have those until Thursday and I have no idea what to study.”

“I’ve got you,” Scott says.

“You should totally come over,” Stiles says. “It’s like we never see each other outside of school and, like, not semi-drenched in blood.”

“Yeah!” Scott says. “And play Mario Kart.”

“Yes!” Stiles says. “It’s finally time to make Rainbow Road our bitch.”

There’s a guilty pause.

“Except, actually...” Scott says. Stiles sighs, and he sighs deeply.

“Allison?” Stiles says.

“I don’t even know what’s going on anymore, Stiles,” Scott says. “It’s like one minute everything’s fine, and then suddenly she’s not talking to me and her dad’s got a gun to my head, you know? And sometimes she and I are great, but he’s trying to murder me, or she’s untagged herself from all of my Facebook photos, but he’s nodding at me when I pass him at Safeway.”

“Hunter families are wild,” Stiles says.

“I just want to get invited over for dinner in a normal way, and not have to escape through a third story window, is that too much to ask?” Scott says.

“It isn’t,” Stiles says.

“I had to ask Lydia last week why Allison wasn’t speaking to me anymore,” Scott says. “Apparently I’m inconsistent and inattentive. I have good excuses, and she knows– it was totally reasonable to cancel a movie date because of the fairy thing, right?”

“Definitely,” Stiles says.

“But it was the third time in two weeks,” Scott says, and he really does sound miserable. “And Allison doesn’t deserve that, you know? She deserves the best. I don’t know if I can be the best. I mean, there are just so many issues. I’m a flake and I’m not paying enough attention to her, and then there’s the whole issue with her family, and stuff just keeps coming up. I don’t deserve her, Stiles. She’s just so smart and beautiful, and...”

“Well, you must’ve done something right if she’s speaking to you again,” Stiles says. Scott seems to perk up somewhat at that.

“Yeah, I guess. After I talked to Lydia, I skipped English and drove to Safeway and bought a bunch of flowers. Allison has Econ at the end of the day, so I convinced her to skip and I said I was sorry and gave her the flowers, and we went to her dad’s super-nice cabin in the hills and–”

What follows is the most disgustingly romantic and terrifyingly explicit description of sex Stiles has ever heard spoken aloud. How can he tell Scott to shut the fuck up when they’re best bros? How can he run away when he’s contractually obligated to continue making snow cones for another several hours? He and Fred make silent eye contact. Take me, Satan, Stiles thinks. I have never been more ready to die. I’m ready to pay for my sins. Please, just end the suffering.

Someone slams a twenty onto the plastic table, and Scott shuts up fast. Without looking up, Stiles says, “Satan? Is that you?”

Derek Hale is not amused.

“I want a snow cone,” he says. Stiles furrows his brow.

“Tough luck, buddy,” Stiles says. “We don’t take cash here. Mosey on down the playground and buy yourself some tickets. They’re right over there.”

Derek glares harder. Stiles quirks an eyebrow in response. He’s getting real tired of this shit.

“The whole Alpha thing might work on Scott, but may I remind you,” Stiles says, “I am not Scott, and Scott is not a part of this very efficient Snow Cone chain of assembly. So please, leave and let me serve some real customers.”

“I’m offering you twenty dollars for a snow cone, Stiles,” Derek says.

“The Beacon Elementary snow cone industry is totally legitimate, unlike those other corrupt school snow cone industries,” Stiles says. “I am a man with morals, and I don’t accept bribery.”

Derek growls and clenches his fists. He storms off. Stiles rolls his eyes. He assumes Scott does too, though he doesn’t bother to check. Derek is the most eye-roll worthy person he’s ever met.

He starts serving a very kind and polite fourth grader who has her tickets pre-ripped and everything, and who makes absolutely sure he sees that she has the correct amount before dropping them into the little Santa-head bucket.

“Why do we put up with his shit?” Scott asks.

“Why do you put up with his shit, you mean. I oh-so-clearly do not put up with his shit,” Stiles says.

“I’m the one who always said we should just let him die,” Scott says. Stiles scoffs.

“No you weren’t. And anyway, if snow-cone related misdemeanors were punishable by death there would be a line of heads on this desk that used to belong to women named Susan.”

“What is he even doing here?” Scott asks.

“It’s the Winter Faire,” Stiles says. “Everyone’s here.”

Five minutes later, Derek comes back and resentfully tosses a clump of tickets into the bin. Stiles raises his eyebrows.

“How many do you want? Fifty? That’s a lot of tickets,” Stiles says. “You should take a few of those back if you plan on going on the giant slide. It’s not an expensive ride, but it’s not free.”

Derek doesn’t smile.

“I want three snow cones. Two red, one blue,” Derek says. Then, more bashfully, “Erica and Boyd are here too.”

“Are they?” Stiles says. “Where? Tell them to come say hi.”

“They’re on the giant slide,” Derek says. “I’ll let them know.”

“Good man,” Stiles says. “Hey, which of these is yours?”

“Red,” Derek says. “Boyd was the one who wanted blue.”

Stiles pours extra syrup into one of the reds, and makes sure Derek sees. Derek takes several napkins. It’s probably a wise decision.

Stiles watches him try to eat some as he walks away. He gets some dripping on his chin, because with three snow cones it’s a real balancing act, and a little red ice crystal sticks to his nose. It makes Stiles feel something kind of gross and gooey and not worth contemplating.

***

Derek comes back the next day with Isaac. The Winter Faire is a place of good memories for him– one of the few. Nobody’s been brutally murdered there, at least not that he can knows of. He and Laura used to see how subtly they could one-up each other at all of the different booths without getting too much attention. Cora and Peter would bet against each other on who would win. And of course, they all liked the giant slide. His memory of it all is hazy, but when he sees Erica waving at him from the top of the stairs with the weird wooly blanket all he can think of is Cora’s back crushed into his chest, little hands deathly tight on his thighs when they rode together, and her pigtails smacking him in the face on the way down.

 

Isaac’s feelings about the Faire are relatively neutral. When Derek asks him if he wants a snow cone, he gives him a very dull look. His hands are in his pockets, he’s wearing a giant fluffy scarf. Isaac is not a fan of the cold.

“Besides, they just taste like chemicals now anyway,” he says. “It’s like drinking nail polish.”

“You’re no fun,” Derek says. Isaac raises an eyebrow at him.

“Did Derek Hale just tell me that I’m no fun?” he asks.

Derek gives Isaac twenty tickets, and he disappears into the mist. He suspects he’s found his way to the used books section. Derek takes twenty tickets for himself, and waits in the snow cone line.

When Stiles sees him, he softens. He doesn’t think Stiles even knows he does it– it’s subtle, unconscious. His fake grin drops into a smirk. He puts his hands on his hips.

He wonders if Stiles even realizes he’s doing that, with the hands. They’re all covered in food dye, so now the sides of his Firefly shirt are stained a medley of colors.

“What can I do ya for?” Stiles asks. “I might actually have frost bite, and I know for a fact that my heart is eternally frozen. I see you have tickets this time. Congratulations on not totally sucking.”

 

Derek doesn’t respond to that. Instead, he says, “Scott’s not with you today.”

“Nope,” Stiles says. “He and Allison have a study date, which I suspect is more date than study. I get it, though. I’m not mad.”

Stiles is a little bit mad. Derek doesn’t deal very well with other people’s feelings.

“I’ll have two snow cones,” he says. “Green and red.”

“Ah! Wonderful,” Stiles says. “Nobody chooses green, you know? I guess it’s just not as appealing, somehow.”

“Red is the best flavor,” Derek says.

“Technically, it’s Cherry,” Stiles says. Derek shakes his head, and Stiles laughs. “Who’s the other one for?”

“Isaac,” Derek says. Stiles nods.

“He seems like the kind of freak who’d like green best,” Stiles says. “Tell him to drop by, alright? I’m dying over here.”

“Okay,” Derek says.

Stiles is sloppy. He gets dye everywhere, all over his hands, on the outside of the cup. Derek’s hands are still kind of stained from yesterday. He can’t make himself care.

“Try the giant slide for me, won’t you?” Stiles said. “I’m booked doing this all of today. I need to live vicariously through someone else. Scott didn’t do it, because he’s a wimp who’s afraid of looking lame in front of a lot of kids, but I know you aren’t, are you?”

“Okay,” Derek says. Stiles smiles, and hands over the snow cones.

Isaac finds him on the large water tank half an hour later.

“I got you a snow cone,” Derek says. Isaac rolls his eyes, but takes it.

“You’re creepy and pathetic,” Isaac says. Derek pretends not to hear. “Maybe you should take his advice, and actually go on the giant slide.”

“Did you go?” Derek asks. Isaac shrugs.

“It’s pretty fun,” he says. “Or, I dunno, you could talk to him.”

“I did,” Derek says.

“You got snow cones,” Isaac says. “I don’t know that he’d tell you to fuck off if you put up a lawn chair behind the booth and started chatting.”

“It would be bad for business,” Derek says. Isaac contemplates this for a moment.

“That’s probably true,” Isaac says. “So, maybe ask him to hang out at a later date. You could go to the movies or something.”

Derek glares at him, and Isaac throws his hands up defensively. The green slushes around in the cone, and a little bit trickles down the side.

“Listen, I just think it would be better for the pack if you actually got laid, maybe then you wouldn’t be so tense all the time,” Isaac says. Derek continues glaring. He’s been told it’s his specialty. Sometimes (often) he misses the days when it was actually effective.

“What even qualifies you to be giving this kind of advice?” Derek asks.

“What, you mean have I gotten laid recently?” Isaac asks. “I fucked Allison when she and Scott were broken up.”

Derek furrows his eyebrows.

“I forgot about that,” he says. “Why is Scott so okay with that?”

Isaac shrugs. “Maybe it’s a born wolf thing? Besides, I think he respects her too much to come fight me.”

“But you’ve never dated anyone,” Derek says.

“I’ve dated several people,” Isaac says. “It’s a thing most people do, Derek.”

“I’ve dated people,” Derek says.

“Have you had any relationships that didn’t end in violent deaths?” Isaac says.

“Yes,” Derek says. “I dated people in New York.”

“So why is this different?” Isaac says. “Why are you acting so stupid about this?”

Derek pauses. It’s a good question. He stares down at Stiles, trying desperately to rip open a fresh bag of ice chunks. His hands are probably numb. He’s wearing so many gloves.

“He’s so young,” Derek says. “You’re all so young.”

“He’s a legal adult,” Isaac says. “And we’re all graduating in a semester.”

“You’re seventeen,” Derek says. Isaac arches an eyebrow at him.

“I’ve been through a lot of shit,” Isaac says. “So has he.”

“It would be wrong,” Derek says. “He’s so... fragile.”

“What, because he’s human?” Isaac asks. Derek doesn’t respond. “So fuck a werewolf. Fuck a banshee. It doesn’t have to be him, but you need to get this shit out of your system.”

Derek looks at him. Isaac is so small, and petulant. Sassy. Unrestrained. But he has a point.

“Okay,” Derek says. Isaac seems surprised.

“Okay?” Isaac asks.

“Okay,” Derek repeats. “I’ll– I’ll sleep with someone. I’ll get it out of my system. Eventually. But– I need to find someone else supernatural.”

“Great,” Isaac says. “And I guess I should be helping with that?”

Derek shrugs.

“I don’t suppose there’s some kind of interspecies supernatural Tinder?” Isaac asks. Derek shrugs. “I bet Peter knows.”

“I hope you’re not talking to him,” Derek says, as sternly as he can manage.

“I’m not,” Isaac says. “I’m not planning on it, either. He’s creepy. But I bet he knows.”

***

Scott and Stiles have plans. They have plans, dammit. The last day of finals is over, both of them (probably) passed all their classes, and they’re going to have some real, legit bro-time. The Sheriff bought liters of soda, pounds of Cheetos, a gazillion Oreos, and they’re going to play shitty Wii games until their eyes bleed and their fingers go numb.

Which is, of course, why the Jeep breaks down when he’s trying to take a shortcut to his house, and before he can even call triple A, it starts snowing.

Fucking snowing.

“Can you believe this shit?” he asks nobody in particular. And of course, no phone signal.

Fuck.

He climbs back into the Jeep for a few minutes, but there isn’t any heating and it’s getting cold fast. The snow is really coming in. It’s Northern California, this isn’t supposed to happen. They’re not even in the mountains. People drive to see snow, they go to Tahoe or Bear Valley. The snow doesn’t come to them.

Naturally, he’s ill equipped to deal with this. His car doesn’t have snow chains or special tires or anything. He wouldn’t even know how to do that– though it doesn’t matter right now, because his car is fucking useless.

He puts on every item of clothing available to himself, and wraps himself in a fleece blanket he keeps in the back seats.

Then, he walks out into the woods.

The trees serve as sort of a buffer against the snow, which means he mostly gets the crunch of late autumn when he walks. The rainy season hasn’t started yet, so the creeks are dry.

He thinks it’s kind of fucked up that he can navigate the forest so well. He’d spent so much time running through the trees at two a.m., away from or towards monsters.

Look, that’s the creek bed where he stabbed the shapeshifter! Follow the creek for about twenty minutes of desperate running, then turn right at the rock where Derek got pumped full of bullets. Then, look for claw marks on the trees; the more there are, the closer you are to home plate.

Derek’s been remodeling. There’s a roof, and a fridge, and heating. Dear Jesus, let there be heating. That’s the thought that keeps Stiles bitterly trudging along through the miles of forest. Derek is a sore consolation prize for an evening of bro-time with Scott (except for not totally, if he’s being honest with himself).

He doesn’t even think about wether or not Derek will be home until he knocks on the door, but thank god Derek answers. He’s wearing sweat pants and a t-shirt. Stiles is wearing four shirts, a parka, and a blanket. He steps inside wordlessly.

“What’s going on?” Derek asks.

“It’s snowing,” Stiles says. Derek raises his eyebrows, and looks outside.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and kicks off his sneakers. He was right. There’s heating.

In moments, Isaac is padding down the stairs.

“What’s going on?” Isaac asks.

“Snow,” Derek says. Isaac rolls his eyes. Stiles really appreciates that, more than he can express with words.

“Yeah, I know, I have eyes. I mean, what’s up with that? It doesn’t snow here,” Isaac says.

“Well, apparently now it does,” Stiles says. “It’s, like, an inch deep already in places, and I think it’s only been around an hour. Hey, can I borrow your phone?”

“Sure,” Isaac says, and carefully hands it over. Scott had made the mistake of tossing him something once at a pack meeting; that t.v. remote had never seen the light of day again.

Stiles clicks it on.

“No signal,” he says. Isaac’s brow furrows.

“That’s weird,” he says.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “A lot of this is weird. Did you know my jeep broke down?”

“Is that why you’re here?” Isaac asks.

“Yes,” Stiles says. “What did you think was going on?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Isaac says, but looks rather pointedly at Derek. For his part, Derek makes a very concerted effort at rolling his eyes, but it looks strained. Actually, it’s pretty funny. Stiles would laugh about it, but there’s other shit going on.

“Do you think this is... weird?” Stiles asks.

“Yes,” Derek says.

“I mean like, weird weird. Like, our type of weird.”

He pauses.

“Hard to tell. Should probably consult the bestiary,” Derek says.

Nobody moves.

Stiles hates this. He hates having his plans ruined, he hates his Jeep breaking down, he hates the cold. He especially hates any statement that ends with, ‘let’s consult the bestiary’. God, that’s the worst. It’s never not supernatural, is it? Why do they even bother? It’s never a massive plumbing error or something weird going on with the flu. It’s always supernatural.

They consult the bestiary.

Stiles figures they should have it memorized by now. He could probably argue that they should designate someone to do that, but it would probably be him and he’s honestly not super into that idea. Because despite the fact that it’s about all these gory monsters and creepy shit, it’s super dry.

He’s a fragile human who’s been out in the cold too long, so he gets a pass this time. Instead, Isaac gets to dig through the tomes while he stretches out on the couch.

Relatively speaking, it’s a sweet deal.

Eventually, Erica comes downstairs in sweats with her hair in a side braid over her shoulder. It’s been a while since Stiles saw her like that– natural, minus leather corsets and a full face of makeup. It must be how she hangs out at home, and that’s strange to think of. Derek’s is a sort of home to her.

She perches on the edge of the couch.

“Do you live here?” Stiles asks. She quirks an eyebrow. “God, just wondering.”

“We all have rooms here– me, Boyd, Isaac. Isaac lives here permanently, Boyd and I come and go,” she says.

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Have you, like, decorated it?”

“That’s a super weird question,” she says.

“I know,” he says. “Just humor me. I’m trying to picture it.”

“Okay,” she says. “I guess? I brought some of my shit from home, and sometimes if Derek notices us looking at something for long enough he buys it. He got us all basic furniture. We’ve got like, desks, and beds. The essentials.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, and he kind of just wants to sink into the couch and disappear forever.

“What?” she asks.

“That’s so... mother hen,” Stiles says, by which he means he’s picturing Derek assembling Ikea furniture and wandering into local stores to buy band posters and exciting lamps, and he actually feels like he might be dying inside.

 

Erica gives that predatory grin that all the wolves seem capable of– she never smiled like that before, and neither did Boyd, or Scott (though he rarely does now)– and leans in.

“You know, his bed is the biggest and comfiest. It was probably on sale; he probably wouldn’t’ve bought himself something like that otherwise. Point being, you should try it out sometime,” she says.

He throws his arm over his face dramatically.

“Oh my god Erica,” he says. She smiles wider.

“I don’t think he’d say no if he were to find you naked in a pile of rose petals, is all I’m saying,” she says. He actually rolls over this time, so he can bury his face in the couch.

“You’re killing me,” he says. “Can’t he hear you?”

“Mega sound-proofing,” she says. “You have me and Boyd to thank for that.”

She winks. She fucking winks.

“No need to rub it in that some people have their shit together,” Stiles says. He pauses. “How are you?”

“I think finals killed me,” she says. “But I’m good.”

Erica decides to make hot chocolate, because why not, and a few minutes later Isaac comes back down the stairs. He doesn’t bother carrying the bestiary with him because it’s too big and bulky to be easily wielded, but he does clutch his phone in his hand.

“Where’s Derek?” he asks.

“I think he’s in his room,” Erica says. “Why? What is it?”

Isaac grimaces and stares down at the screen. He looks done, just so done with everything.

“You’re not going to believe this...”

***

So now to add to the list of shit Stiles has dealt with, Yetis. He’s survived werewolves, banshees, and fairies, but he’s probably going to die of exposure watching for a mythological creature like some nut from Santa Cruz. They won’t even be sure this is what it is until they actually see it.

“Why here?” Stiles asks. He’s shivering. Isaac is cool as a cucumber, wearing his usual fifty million layers. He doesn’t even need those, Stiles knows for a fact that wolves are naturally warmer. “Why us?”

“According to the bestiary, yetis protect forests,” Isaac says. “It’s probably just mad about all the new housing being built on the edge of town. That’s some deforestation right there.”

“I’m the yeti, I speak for the trees,” Stiles mumbles. Isaac doesn’t look amused. He should be; Stiles is great at jokes. “Why not the Amazons? That’s, like, the capital of deforestation, right? You don’t hear about any sudden temperature drops happening over there.”

“I don’t know,” Isaac says. “I just got stuck with bestiary duty, okay?”

And now they’re both stuck with Yeti observation duty, stumbling through the forests together. They’ve found that magical creatures are less likely to hurt anyone if there’s a human there, and having read approximately one paragraph of text, Isaac is now the resident Yeti expert.

“Hey, so, there’s a very real possibility that I’m about to die,” Stiles says, and Isaac rolls his eyes, “but if I survive, Lydia’s having a holiday party next week, and you’re invited.”

“Lydia didn’t invite me,” Isaac says.

“I invited you,” Stiles says. “The whole pack is invited. You should come hang out. I know werewolves can’t get, like, totally smashed on eggnog like I’m going to, but it’ll still be fun. We’re going to watch Elf and play stupid party games.”

“Okay,” Isaac says. Stiles smiles.

“Party games which include, perhaps, spin the bottle...” Stiles says, and wiggles his eyebrows.

“No way I’m making out with you, Stilinski,” Isaac says.

“I’m not talking about me, I’m talking about you, and potentially Allison, and potentially also Scott,” Stiles says. Isaac’s face tightens in fake disgust. His cheeks redden.

“You’re such an asshole,” Isaac says. “Is Derek invited? Maybe you two could finally...”

Isaac lets his sentence trail off. Of course, the meaning is still perfectly clear.

“What is it with everyone and... that,” Stiles says.

“You’re pretty obvious,” Isaac says.

“It wouldn’t work,” Stiles says. Isaac sighs vigorously, and his breath comes out as a dense white puff.

“Why not?” Isaac asks. “Give me three good reasons.”

“Age difference. Interspecies. College,” Stiles says.

“It seems like you’ve put some thought into this,” Isaac says. Stiles shrugs.

“There’s something there,” Stiles says. “But I’m not going to explore it, you know? It just... seems like a bad idea.”

“Fine,” Isaac says, and Stiles is almost surprised. He hadn’t expected him to actually give up so easily. “But this whole teen angst, sexual tension thing you’ve got going on is not good for the pack. So, if you’re not going to fuck Derek, fuck someone else. For all our sakes.”

“Who?” Stiles asks. “It’s not exactly like there are people lining up to get in my pants, and I couldn’t date someone who isn’t involved in this shit. Allison is neck deep in it, and she still gets mad at Scott about it.”

“You could fuck Danny,” Isaac says.

“I don’t think he’s into me,” Stiles says. “Besides, doesn’t he have a boyfriend right now?”

Isaac sighs again. He’s been doing a lot of sighing lately.

“Get a Tinder, or a Grindr, or something,” Isaac says. “Or wait, is that too anonymous for you?”

Stiles doesn’t even bother dignifying that with a response.

“How about this: I’ll set you up with someone,” Isaac says. Stiles raises an eyebrow.

“What?” he asks. “Why?”

“The aforementioned reasons,” Isaac says. “Listen, I can’t deal with your weird sexual energy shit and Scott’s, but you know the only way to get Scott to stop talking about Allison in graphic detail would be to kill him, and I’m not willing to do that. Derek would eat me.”

“You would eat yourself,” Stiles says.

“Yes,” Isaac says. “So?”

Stiles considers it for a minute. Potential benefits: getting laid. Potential costs: getting horribly rejected, getting someone dragged into the werewolf shit and killed. The truth is, he’s seen worse odds before, and he’s bet on them.

“Okay,” he says.

Isaac almost looks surprised. Stiles Stilinski, listening to someone for once, taking somebody else’s advice. Yeah, whatever. He’d contribute some snarky response to whatever Isaac is probably thinking, but that’s when they get to the clearing.

 

The sky is heavy and dense, with a mass of tumultuous grey clouds spinning over some spot in the near distance, maybe another clearing in the forest. The points of redwood trees jab up into the sky like little needles. He doesn’t think they’re very used to snow.

They march through the clearing (Isaac marches, Stiles straggles) and continue through the forest for another fifteen minutes or so.

Stiles always used to love the snow, or more accurately, the idea of snow. One year, his mom took them to Tahoe. It was a five hour drive. He spent the whole time playing Pokemon on his shiny new DS. His mom was a graceful skier, but the moment he tried to put on some skis for himself, he toppled face-first into the snow, surprising no one. So, he learned that snow was less fun in reality than it looked on TV. That was okay. All he wanted for a while after that was a white Christmas, just like in the movies.

Well, now he’s facing up against possible foot of snow basically overnight and out of nowhere if he didn’t fix this, and that White Christmas could go suck a dick.

He thinks mournfully of his Jeep for a moment. Would they even be able to find it? Would it be totally covered, lost in a stray snowbank, until spring came and the snow melted away? Or would spring ever come? Would they be trapped in an eternal winter, like Frozen or Narnia?  
Suddenly, there’s a rumbling from behind them.

They turn; Isaac has his fangs out in the blink of an eye.

In the trees, the yeti stands at about ten feet tall, with shaggy white hair like an english sheepdog. Its eyes are wide and blue, eerily human in that supernatural way. It looks surprised. It leans forward, and opens its maw to reveal three rows of jagged teeth.

Stiles takes a step back. He puts his hand on Isaac’s arm.

“Fragile human, here,” he says. “Don’t start a fight and get me killed. I think that would end badly for all of us.”

Isaac does his best to pull his fangs back and return his eyes to their normal color. The yeti, for its part, does very little to make itself less intimidating, and Stiles honestly gets that. Which is why he has to step between Isaac and the Yeti, and try to be as diplomatic as possible.

“Hey, listen,” Stiles says. “So, I hear you’re upset about that housing project thing going on. I understand that, I really do. We all want the best for nature, especially around here. I mean, have you seen some of those bumper stickers? Probably doesn’t mean a whole lot from someone driving a car, but come on, you have to know what commutes are like. Especially into the city; those aren’t really bike-able.”

 

Isaac gives him a look.

“Anyway, basically, we’d appreciate it if you’d cut it out with the snow,” Stiles says. “My car is buried somewhere out there, and it’s so old. I just want to be able to go to school. Jesus, I’m so close to graduating, you have no idea how hard and long I’ve worked, especially with all this other shit going on. If I can’t drive to school, I can’t pass my classes, and then I’ll fail and I’ll be stuck here forever. So, please.”

The yeti’s reaction to this is Wookiee howling, and then sweeping Stiles up in its gigantic gorilla arms King Kong style.

Somehow, it manages to outrun Isaac, which is truly a feat.

So there Stiles is, pressed up against this giant white shag-carpet chest, cradled in a giant hand that is actually a little bit too human for comfort, thinking, not for the first time that year, that he was about to have his intestines eaten directly out of his still living body. Maybe the wolves would be able to track his scent and come find him, and nurse McCall would be able to 3D print him a new kidney or something, but he honestly kind of doubted that. At least the yeti’s warm.

 

Eventually, the yeti slows its pace, and Stiles thinks they must be approaching its hideout, and he’s kind of right. He was picturing a cave, but they come upon a nice driveway, and a two-story house with a blue Prius in front. There’s a sliding door at the back, and the yeti has to crouch to get in.

It drops Stiles next to the space heater.

“So I figure there’s no point in trying to run away, right?” he asks. The yeti looks blankly at him. “Like, if I were to walk to that door, that very accessible and not even remotely locked door, you would case me and catch me? Which is why you didn’t even bother locking it?”

The yeti sits down on the sprawling couch, and pats the spot next to itself.

It’s one of the creepiest and most surreal experiences of his life. Stiles, of course, gets up and walks over.

He sits down. Nothing happens. The yeti just looks at him.

“So, this is kind of weird, and a little awkward,” Stiles says. “You’re not talking. I wasn’t talking, but I’m talking now. Honestly, not really sure what you want me to do here.”

The yeti makes another wookiee noise, and hands Stiles a half eaten bag of Doritos. Stiles removes the chip clip, and eats one very suspiciously.

They taste like normal Doritos, but he’s not totally reassured. He eats another one anyway.

“So here’s what I’m thinking,” Stiles says. “You don’t kill me.”

The yeti nods. Stiles is pleasantly surprised.

“Okay, good,” he says. “I’m glad we agree on that. Point number two: you stop all the snow stuff.”

The yeti blinks.

“Okay, but,” Stiles says, “all that snow can’t be good for the redwoods, can it?”

The yeti nods. It can?

“I guess you would know more about that kind of thing than I would,” Stiles says. It nods again. “So, can you speak? Are you just choosing not to for some weird supernatural related reason? Because I totally support that, I just think this would go down a little bit easier if you were, like. You know. Actually participating in this conversation.”

It makes a hurt wookiee noise.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know,” Stiles says, and sighs. “I didn’t mean any offense, buddy. Just trying to figure out what’s going on here.”

The yeti’s eyes soften, and he almost looks sympathetic. With a very put-upon wookiee sigh, he starts shrinking, and the hair starts retracting into his body, which is really so gross and physiologically improbable (as if gross and physiologically improbably didn’t apply to everything in Stiles’s life these days) that it’s kind of hard to watch. He shrinks back and hides behind the Doritos for a few seconds, until he thinks it’s over. God bless Doritos, they always save the day.

When he looks back up, he’s taken even more aback.

“Wait a second,” he says, “I know you from somewhere.”

“I’m Fred,” the perfectly average guy in front of him says, and Stiles’s eyebrows skyrocket.

“You’re Fred!” Stiles says. “You’re the parent I worked with at the snow cone booth! Oh my god, you let me do all the scooping for like, a plural number of hours, and you’re a Yeti! My hands were freezing, do you have any idea?”

 

Fred shrugs. He doesn’t seem to care at all. Fine. He sees how it is.

“I want to stop the local deforesting,” Fred says.

“I get what you’re saying, I really do,” Stiles says, “But I actually have zero power over that, and almost zero percent of the Beacon Hills population is going to assume this weird snow thing is supernatural retribution for their crimes against nature.”

“But you did,” Fred says.

“Yeah, because all my friends are either werewolves or werewolf affiliated, and not assuming that kind of thing has gotten me almost killed twice in the last six months,” Stiles says.

 

“You know people,” Fred says. “Get them to stop this.”

“I know, like, two people, and none of them actually have any power to stop this,” Stiles says.

“Isn’t your dad the sheriff?” Fred asks. Stiles groans.

“Oh my god, will I ever be able to abandon my reputation?” Stiles says. “Like, god knows I’m proud of him, but being known as the Sheriff’s kid is not always the most beneficial thing. Also, he has no power to stop this.”

“What if they were doing something illegal?” Fred asks.

“Why? Are they?” Stiles asks.

“They could be,” Fred says.

“If you have actual, substantial evidence that the people in charge of that are doing something illegal, you should bring it to the station so they can get a warrant and maybe stop what’s going on,” Stiles says.

“So, what you’re saying is I should plant evidence?” Fred says. Stiles shrugs.

“Not really, but do whatever you need to do to feel secure in stopping this,” Stiles says.

“You’re really not that useful, are you?” Fred says.

“I get that a lot,” he says. “Hey, could I possibly get a ride home? We’re, like, in the middle of nowhere, and I kind of feel this conversation wrapping up, and I would ideally like to see my dad before he goes searching for me. He’s probably kind of upset. Or maybe not, who knows. I wouldn’t say this is that unusual of an experience.”

Since Fred is a dad himself, this seems to appeal to him on some level, and he nods.

They walk to the Prius together. Stiles buckles himself into the passenger side. Abba’s Greatest Hits is playing.

It’s an awkward ride.

***

He slams Stiles against the door the moment he steps inside. His hands furl into claws around Stiles’s stupid layers, and he thinks he can hear fabric tearing, but it’s honestly kind of hard with his own heart pounding so loudly.

“Hey,” Stiles says. “I had, honestly, thought we’d moved past this stage of our relationship, but I’m glad you’re bringing it back. I honestly was starting to miss the shoulder bruises a little bit.”

He presses his nose into the crook of Stiles’s neck and inhales.

“You almost died,” Derek says. Stiles’s pulse is racing too, now. It’s speeding up.

“Kind of? Not really?” Stiles says. “The yeti turned out to have pretty good intentions, and also, I almost die a lot.”

“I didn’t know where you were,” Derek says. “Isaac just saw it carry you off into the forest. I thought you were going to die.”

“So did I, to be honest,” Stiles says. “But, I don’t know. He gave me Doritos? It all worked out pretty well.”

Derek’s not even listening to him. It’s a relief to hear Stiles talking, but it’s like everything he says is meaningless.

He presses a kiss to the corner of Stiles’s mouth.

They both freeze.

Bad idea, Derek, his brain says. You know better.

 

He can tell how Stiles feels, too– surprise. Shock. Amazement, maybe. He smells overwhelmed.

Stiles is blocking the door, so he escapes through the window.

***

“Peter knows someone,” Derek says.

“What?” Isaac asks. He sounds surprised.

“I asked Peter,” Derek says.

“I thought you said Peter was bad and creepy,” Isaac says.

“He’s my uncle,” Derek says. “He gave me the number of a chimera named Jessica.”  
Isaac frowns. “Okay, but you’re not going to go out with her.”

“Yes I am,” Derek says.

“Have you texted her yet?” Isaac asks.

“No,” Derek says.

 

“Good,” Isaac says. “Because I found you a date.”

“Did you?” Derek asks.

“I did,” Isaac says. “And you need to go on it because honestly, I may have made some promises and if I don’t fulfill, my life may be on the line.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Stop being so dramatic. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Excuse you, it suits me wonderfully. Now, are you going to do the right thing, and not let me die, or are you going to do the wrong thing, and date someone who you’re ill suited to?”

Derek grumbles.

“I’m the Alpha,” he says.

“Wow, I had no idea,” Isaac says. Did the bite imbue him with the gift of such intense sarcasm, or was he born with it? “Be at Foster’s at one thirty tomorrow.”

With that, Isaac retreats back to his bedroom with a flourish. He really loves those dramatic staircases.

***

Foster’s is a cheap but welcoming diner. It’s the kind of place that likes to utilize the checker pattern, the color red, and metallic objects. As ‘old school’ as it likes to pretend to be, it was opened in 2003 and everyone remembers it. The most frequent patrons are old people and students from the community college.

When he walks in, he’s not sure what he’s looking for. His hands are in his pockets, and the collar of his leather jacket is smoothed down. He’d spent at least fifteen minutes on his hair, which is especially rare for him. Maybe Isaac was right. Maybe he should listen to his pack more. Maybe he wanted whatever this was to work.

In a small booth in the corner, Stiles is sitting alone, looking fidgety with a menu. He looks up, and they make eye contact.

There are plenty of free tables, and it’s only 1:25, so Derek goes over to him.

“Come here often?” Stiles asks with an impish grin. Derek rolls his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“Eating, like a regular person,” Stiles says. He looks a little skittish, which has grown rare. “Ideally, my blind date will show up, it’ll all go really well, and I’ll take her back to my place, but,” he visibly thumbs the lid of a flask in his leather jacket, “here’s to contingency plans.”

“I didn’t know you drank,” Derek says. Stiles shrugs. “Do you really think it’ll go that badly?”

“I don’t know, but I’ve had kind of a rough week, if you can remember, and I’ve learned that it’s always best to be prepared for the worst possible outcome,” Stiles says.

“Since when do you wear leather?” Derek asks. Stiles looks down at his body, as if he forgot what was on it. He looks up, and grins.

“I figured, since it works so well for you and your squad, I might give it a try. What do you think?”

Derek thinks that his smile is blinding, and that he wants to press his thumbs into his dimples. It hits him over the head.

“Did Isaac set you up?”

The moment the words leave his mouth, he sees the realization dawn.

Stiles looks a little bit disappointed. He glances towards the door. Derek understands the feeling.

“I told him not to do this,” Derek says. That only seems to make Stiles unhappier.

“Me too,” Stiles says. “I’m sorry.”

Derek slides into the booth.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asks. Startled. Surprised. Confused. Derek resolutely does not smile.

He opens the menu.

“I’ve heard they have really good curly fries here,” he says.

***

They both get burgers. Derek eats all of his own curly fries, and then some of Stiles’s. It’s unfair, and Stiles doesn’t appreciate it.

“I hope you’re paying for those,” Stiles says.

“I’m not,” Derek says. “They’re your curly fries.”

“Yeah, but you’re eating them all,” Stiles says. “It would be unfair for me to pay for them if I don’t even get to eat any.”

“You’ve eaten a bunch.”

“I’ve eaten a small handful,” Stiles says. “That’s inadequate. Curly fries are my favorite, Derek. My favorite. You wouldn’t be so cruel as to deprive me without any kind of compensation.”

He pouts. He thinks he hallucinates Derek looking at his mouth.

“I’m sure I’ll compensate you somehow,” Derek says in a low voice.

They talk about school. They talk about the pack, and Scott, and how much Scott and Allison gross everyone out, and the fact that Isaac is a sad puppy. Maybe one of them should hook him up with someone in repayment (retribution) for today.

When the check comes, Derek snatches it before Stiles can even reach it. Darn werewolf speed.

“I can pay for my own stuff,” Stiles says.

“I’m paying,” Derek says.

“Consider this: no,” Stiles says, and tries to grab it out of Derek’s hands. Derek rolls his eyes and ignores him.

“I’m paying for your curly fries,” Derek says innocently.

“And everything else!” Stiles says.

“I’m sure you’ll make it up to me,” Derek says, and boy does that have implications.

They walk to Stiles’s car together, laughing quietly about something stupid.

Stiles doesn’t know what to say.

“Well, goodbye I guess?” is what he comes up with. Derek nods solemnly.

“You know, Stiles, you may not be wolf, but you’re pack,” Derek says. “Stop by anytime.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, and Derek walks away. Stiles watches him get into the Camaro and drive away. He spends another five minutes leaning against his own car, and then he gets in.

He doesn’t go home.

Erica looks a little bit surprised to see him. Isaac doesn’t. Stiles has never been upstairs before, and just happens to walk by Isaac’s open door.

“Where is he?” Stiles asks. Isaac is lying on the ground, listening to some strange meditative sounds. Is that an actual boom box? Isaac barely moves his head.

“In his room,” Isaac says.

“Where is that?” Stiles asks.

“At the end,” he says. “Close the door when you go.”

Stiles does.

He treads carefully. Derek remodeled the home himself, and while Stiles is sure he looks good in a hard hat and wife-beater, he can remember a time all too easily when entire floorboards were missing.

He leans against the doorframe instead of stepping all the way in. Derek’s room is neat. Everything is white, black, or navy blue. It looks almost like a page from an ikea catalogue, but for the stray grey sweatpants and books on assorted surfaces. He’s sure Derek can hear him breathing, but it takes a full sixty seconds before Derek turns around and looks at him.

“Was that a date?” Stiles asks. Derek’s hard to read, which is unfair. His eyes are light hazel, and totally blank. He’s sitting in a wheelie desk chair, legs stretched out in front of him, arms crossed.

“I think Isaac would say yes,” Derek says.

Stiles takes a step in.

“But what would you say?”

“Depends on what you’d say,” Derek says.

Another step forward. Derek stands up.

They’re close. Stiles can feel his body heat.

“Why are we fighting this?” Stiles says.

“For a lot of very good reasons,” Derek says.

“Good reasons?” Stiles asks. “Good reasons?”

 

He moves first. He presses a single, gentle kiss to the side of Derek’s mouth, a sort of thank you, a sort of reminder, a sort of intentional parallel.

A moment of pause.

Derek grabs him by the hips, and throws him onto the bed.

The door miraculously closes. Stiles suspect Isaac is behind that.

Their first real, mouth-to-mouth, both-partners-participating kiss happens when they’re horizontal. Stiles is lying on his back, Derek is over him.

He groans, and arches up into his body.

“That shirt looks good on you,” Stiles says. Derek raises an eyebrow. “I think it would look even better on the floor.”

Derek keels over, laughing into Stiles’s neck. After a few minutes, he does follow through.

Stiles would love to take his own shirt off, he really would, but he’s so distracted by the actual living, breathing Adonis in front of him. There are some muscles on Derek he thinks don’t even exist on normal people.

And then suddenly, Derek’s hands are on him, on his stomach, sliding up under his shirt. A thumb brushes across his nipple, and Stiles throws his head back. He think he can hear Derek laughing again, the bastard.

Derek deftly pulls off Stiles’s pants, and presses his hand against the not insubstantial bulge in his boxers. Stiles whines, and arches into it.

“You’re being pretty quiet,” Derek says.

“Am I?” Stiles asks, high and breathless. “Do you want me to talk?”

“Maybe,” Derek says, and he leans down to bite at Stiles’s nipple through the thin fabric of his grey t-shirt.

“Fuck,” Stiles says. He needs everything off, but his head is lolling on the sheets and his hands are grasping at Derek’s neck and chest and he honestly can’t think enough to perform any actual actions. His chest is so hard, he doesn’t understand and he doesn’t want to. “Your abs are unreal.”

“Thank you?” Derek says. He grinds down into Stiles’s hips, and oh boy.

“This is going to end pretty soon if you keep doing that,” Stiles says, “and I think I’d be pretty disappointed if that were to happen.”

“Alright,” Derek says, and backs off completely, and no, that’s not what Stiles wants– “How about this, then. I’m going to take my pants off, and then I’m going to finger you until you ask me very nicely to fuck you, and then I’m going to fuck you until you forget how to breathe. Does that sound good?”

“Yes,” Stiles says weakly.

Derek smiles that wolf-grin, and his pants hit the floor. No underwear. Stiles wants to die.

Derek saunters back over to the bed. He grabs Stiles’s boxers by the waistband and rips straight through them. He shouldn’t find that as hot as he does.

He very gently presses one finger against his hole, slick and inviting, and Stiles whimpers. It’s just there, resting, but the pressure is building. Then, there are two.

Derek kisses at his jaw, his ear, his collarbone. He bites at his neck and pushes in a the same time, and Stiles arches right off the bed.

When the fingers curl inside him, his hands fly to the sheets for something to hold onto. Hello, prostate.

“Fuck, Derek,” he says, and hisses as Derek goes back to mouth at a nipple. He’s still wearing the shirt, but he’s not sure he can invest the energy right now into taking it off. It’s bunched up under his armpits. “Jesus Christ, Derek, please. I’m ready.”

Derek ignores him in favor of putting in a third finger, and Stiles probably does need it, but he’s not that patient.

He rocks back against him, and every time Derek strokes across his prostate he feels like his vision is about to fail him.

“Please, Derek,” he says. “I’m ready, god fucking damn it.”

Derek moves back up to kiss his neck, and finally, finally he hears the crinkling of a condom wrapper. There's a splash of cold lube directly onto him, and he startles. Then, the blunt pressure as Derek starts to push into him. 

It’s not comfortable. He feels like he’s been misled, but he’s been told that it might not be enjoyable for the first few minutes, so he bears it out. It doesn’t hurt that

Derek’s still kissing him, kissing his neck, kissing across his chest. Kissing his Adam’s apple, with the barest scraping of teeth.

Then, Derek starts moving. Stiles feel like all the breath has been knocked out of him. He’s grasping at Derek’s shoulders, anything, to try to anchor himself.

Derek knows what he’s doing. He keeps nailing that spot, over and over.

Stiles curls up into him, and drags his teeth across Derek’s shoulder.

“Fuck,” Derek says, and then he really starts to lose it, thrusting in harder, sharper. Stiles is clinging to him for dear life. He’s so on edge, he feels like he’s been on edge for hours– he wants to come, he wants to stay here forever.

“Please,” he whines, and grinds down into Derek’s hips.

The moment Derek gets his hand on his dick he comes all over himself. One thrust, two thrusts, and Derek follows him with a shuddering breath.

Derek flops onto his back. After a few tenacious moments, Stiles curls into Derek’s side.

“This isn’t a one time thing, is it?” he asks.

“Definitely not,” Derek says. Stiles smiles.

***

They don’t leave the room for another two hours, and when they do, they can barely stand. Isaac pokes his head out of his room and crinkles his nose.

“Did it happen?” Isaac asks, though he obviously can smell the answer. Smiles gives him his best shit-eating grin.

“Yep,” he says. “You’re next.”

Isaac looks frightened and a little uncomfortable.

“No, I don’t mean– not like I’m going to have sex with you,” Stiles says. Derek walks out of the room behind him, shirtless and in sweatpants. Stiles watches his ass, and even after the afternoon he had, he can feel himself almost starting to drool.

“What he means is: we’re setting you up with someone,” Derek says, and claps Isaac on the shoulder. “Got it?”

Isaac gulps comically. 


End file.
